


Form of the Divine

by Ammeh



Series: FE3H Wankfic [8]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Churches & Cathedrals, F/M, Facials, Female My Unit | Byleth, Mild Verbal Humiliation, Mutual Masturbation, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Religion Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:15:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25757959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ammeh/pseuds/Ammeh
Summary: The goddess' vessel needs a distraction, and Hubert has a bit of a desecration kink.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Series: FE3H Wankfic [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1862374
Comments: 2
Kudos: 101
Collections: Wank Week 2020





	Form of the Divine

**Author's Note:**

> Day 6 of FE3H Wank Week - Worship/Defilement
> 
> With that A support, I couldn't _not_ do Huleth for Day 6. 
> 
> (Hubert gets a little intense re: Church in this so I feel I should clarify that I love all of these pixels even the green ones.)

There have been few sights in his life so deeply satisfying as the ruin of the cathedral.

It might have been a shallow victory against the Archbishop, but symbolically, it's immense. The church is just an institution. It can be destroyed.

He likes to look at it, on the nights before they march, to remind himself of that.

Tonight, he's not alone. The professor's at the far end of the cathedral, pacing idly in the bright patch of moonlight let in by the ruined ceiling. She's facing away, and the button shirt and pleated skirt from the old uniform stores do little to identify her, but her hair marks her even at this distance.

Honestly, her presence is heartening to him. The church's weapon, turned against them. Returned despite all the odds. Proof that they can accomplish anything.

He approaches quietly, mostly out of habit at this point, and lets his footsteps grow loud enough to announce himself as he draws nearer.

She turns to face him. “Oh. Hello, Hubert.” This close, he can see that her shirt is haphazardly thrown on, and even in the dim light he can make out the shadow of a dark bra beneath the white fabric. She must not have been expecting company.

“Good evening, Professor.” He bows. “Can't sleep?”

She shrugs. “Nerves. Tomorrow's a big day.”

He raises a brow. “Someone who was a mercenary for as long as you must have developed some methods of calming down on the eve of battle.”

She opens her mouth and immediately pauses, as if she's reconsidering whether she wants to tell him. “I masturbate, usually,” she says, with a wry twist to her mouth.

“Well then.” He raises an eyebrow. “Don't let me stop you.”

She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. They've had...some interactions resembling a flirtation, by his understanding, but certainly nothing that merits this sort of overture. But something about the visceral monument to their success in this room emboldens him, roots up thoughts he'd normally tamp down.

Still, he's on the verge of playing it off as an attempt to rile her and departing... when she fixes him with a challenging gaze and sits down right there on the cathedral floor. She leans back until her head is on the ground, her knees bent skyward.

Her hand trails up her torso, trying to call his bluff.

It _was_ a bluff, but he's not about to be the one to call it. He can feel heat collecting in his face, but he keeps his gaze steady.

Her eyes flutter shut. Her fingertips trace up her inner thigh, unhurried, her wrist pushing up her skirt in its wake—but rather than slipping her hand into her panties once she reaches them, she brings it back down and retraces the path on her opposite thigh, fingernails curled into her skin.

The goddess' vessel touching herself on the floor of the ruined cathedral should be an image of depravity, but there's something almost...reverent, in the way her hands move on her body. The moonlight catches in her hair, giving it an unearthly luminescence that reminds him of how the archbishop used to look leading sermons. Serene. Uncanny. Holy.

It's somehow intensely frustrating.

Her hand repeats its path again, pressing harder this time, firm enough that her fingernails leave faint white trails in their wake. This time, she stops when she reaches the top of her thigh, hooks her thumbs into her panties and lifts her hips to slide them down.

She lets out a soft sigh as her fingers slide into her folds, her expression still peaceful, beatific.

She's slow with herself, indulgent. Her free hand skims down the column of her neck before slipping the top two buttons of her shirt open. The fabric parts to expose her collarbone and the swell of her bosom, just a sliver of her black brassiere visible over the opened neckline.

She runs her nails over the rounded curve of her breast, her teeth worrying at her lip. In the echoing silence of the cathedral, he can just make out a wet sound from her hand between her legs.

She opens her eyes. Something like disappointment flashes over her face. “...Oh. Are you just going to stand there?”

He starts. This doesn't fit into the understanding he thought he'd had of this situation. Haltingly, watching her face for signs he's misread her, he palms the front of his trousers, where his cock's now tenting the fabric.

She follows with her gaze, rubbing more firmly between her legs as he takes his cock out. Still, her pace is languid, too much like something that _belongs_ in what this space used to represent.

Frankly, it's annoying.

In defiance of the aura she's casting, he spits crudely in his hand and wipes it on his cock. Repeats before gripping himself and starting an impatient tempo.

She watches intently, fingers still playing dreamily at her folds. “Come closer. The light's bad.”

“Very well.” He moves to stand over her, feet on either side of her torso, so he's caught in the column of moonlight streaming in from the ceiling. Something burns darkly in him at the sight—the goddess' vessel at his feet, debauched, just a woman.

She moans softly, her eyes fixed on the belligerent slide of his hand over his cock. Her nails sink into the flesh of her tit, divots under her fingertips as she drags them down towards her cleavage.

“It's making me kind of dizzy to look up at you like this,” she murmurs.

He drops to his knees. Her chest is framed by his thighs, her face now close enough to his prick that a forceful breath might stir the air around it.

Her tongue darts out to lick her lips. Her arm, or what he can feel of it pinned against his thigh, is rocking with the motion of her hand between her legs.

Even on his knees, he has the sense of looming over her. His prick's aimed at her face like a weapon, a threat. (The fact that it's already been more successful at eliciting a reaction from her than any of his past sincere threats is a mixed feeling.)

She swallows heavily, her eyes fixed on where his hand is flying up and down his cock in short, rough jerks. In the faint light he can barely make out a flush on her cheeks.

“I thought you'd have more commentary,” she says, dragging her nails down her neck.

He chuckles. “If that's what you want... Tell me, Professor, how do you think the Archbishop would feel to see you debasing yourself in the cathedral like this?

She moans quietly, her arm moving faster.

“Did you used to fantasize about this? Were you up there, leading choir practice, thinking all the while about getting bent over one of the pews?” He strips his cock, reveling in the thought of the Archbishop's intended scion being this _mortal_ , this _base,_ having so little respect for the trappings of the faith.

“Sometimes.” She licks her lips. “It gets kind of boring. But good team-building.”

That...was really all. All those times they were watching her face, wondering why she'd chosen to lead choir again, what she'd discussed in her last meeting with the Archbishop, slowly losing hope they could sway her to their cause as their “allies” undermined them at every turn... She's never been invested in this mockery. She participated for their sake, she's _theirs._

He's not trying to pace himself, pulling at his prick with an angry fervor, watching the calm slowly fade from her face with satisfaction. The pressure's starting to build, but he wants to see her _unravel_.

Her breath is coming in short, excited pants, her unnaturally bright eyes still glued to what he's doing. Her arm bumps into his leg as her hands on herself grow more eager.

The light catches her hair again, and he wants to despoil it.

He comes with a sharp cry, marking her face, her neck, droplets of his come catching in that halo of unearthly green.

She gasps, closes her eyes and bites her lip. Her movements are increasingly indelicate, hand roaming hungrily over her skin, her arm jerking against his thigh, her torso lurching up against him as her hips buck.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she whispers, mouth falling open. Her face contorts in a silent scream and there's nothing holy in it.

It's breathtaking.

Even as she comes down, her aura of calm doesn't return. She's dirty, panting, the picture of someone coming off a primal rush and considering hopping back on for another go.

He stands and puts his cock away, offering his clean hand to help her up. “Well. I...hope I could be of assistance.” There's more they need to talk about here, but tonight isn't the night to do it.

She laughs dryly. “Consider me distracted.”

Before turning to leave, she raises her hand, finger gleaming wetly in the moonlight, and drags it over his lips like she's anointing him.

He can taste her for the rest of the night.


End file.
